It is all a box in a way, life, and such an area as which for a multitude of intriguing killers and maddening dogs to scuffle in what you might call a killing ground. Silence there is at first, only to be broken by the sound of the raging bull as it rips through the field with its horns on target and at the end only death awaits. This bull is without thought or emotion, but simply driven by command from a higher force that is much similar to a master cracking a whip on the back of his lowly slave. The death at the end is a continuous stream that seems to flow through the air like a beautiful symphony of light and wind that seem to slice that air in two. The air, so delicate is shattered like glass by the battering sound of an explosion that rings the any ear that listens and seems to silence the noise that any hear. Truly it is but a process that is not seen until the master of the slave as well as the slave and bull have arrived simultaneously to act in sync. One would never know, yet one would know as well. The contradiction, the irony, the depth and loss of time that seems to repulse across the very fabric of that seldom reality, that seldom universe we all aspire to. In the end there are the ones that see and predict the outcome, the future if you will, and there are those casually standing to the sides of time, minding their universe only to leave it as it is scattered like ash into the sea of time and they two become but a memory in death's looming waters that flood over in madness and then recede only a moment later. Those that see understand what shall transpire and have but that small brief moment of thought and meditation as their very existence and history flash before their eyes. In all this is but a second, a small moment to reflect on the good or the bad before the process plays out in graceful synchronization. The master whips the slave, the slave in turn reacts and follows his order to send the raging bull down range. The bull rushes out toward its target to gorge without feeling, without hesitation, without fear, and without remorse, soullessly, but gracefully slicing through the air towards the matador who holds the red fabric in hand. This matador wears this red fabric within and is one of two minds, the confused, only minding his time, or the all knowing, who takes this brief moment to ponder and reflect on past grievances that perhaps haunt him so. Which ever this lone matador may be, it all becomes irrelevant in this one moment as the process plays out and that vibrant red flows over the stage of time and all the lead actors and actresses fall to the cold wood of reality which seems so terrifying at a distance, but in its fullest form is merely an end that is looked through by the all seeing eye that is the master of all, the slave master, the slave, the bull, and the moment at which he plans it all. For he is the target, the lord, and time itself, though he is not seen, he is there, and we know this all to well, but it is what frightens us so. That sense of own mortality as it eats away at us day by day, then perhaps at some unsuspecting moment finally shatters that window that is us in an instant. For that same mortality is in a way a box, as is life, and the slave master, the slave, and the raging bull.